No wonder everyone thought I was bad at sport when I was at primary school. In those days, basketball was the sport of (no) choice for primary school girls, while the boys got to play football. And I really wanted to play, but spent half my time sprawled on the ground, skinning my knees and the palms of my hands on the asphalt. Even my chin connected once with that nasty pebbly surface.
A splash of gentian violet
All these injuries required a wad of fluffy cotton wool to mop up the blood and then a splash of gentian violet. If you were lucky, you might have got a band aid as well. I remember a lot of kids, including my brothers and me, had blobs of purple dye on various parts of their skin. That was the treatment for cuts, abrasions, and ringworm. Thankfully that stuff has been banned because it was highly poisonous – yikes. Luckily my tongue was tucked in firmly behind my teeth the time when my chin hit the ground, otherwise that might have had a dab of gentian violet as well.
I was hit with so many balls ….
A few years later, I attended a Catholic girl’s college for my high school years. I was very excited to discover their almighty array of ball sports including netball, softball and tennis. They also had basketball, but I never wanted to revisit that dreaded sport after my primary school days. So naturally, I put my name down for netball. Oh, and softball and tennis as well.
Netball first ….
I don’t ever remember there being a try out for girls who’d never played netball before – you just got out there and played. I’d often bump into other girls when running for the ball. I never really knew where it was, but I ran like everyone else, barrelling through the players like an out-of-control human excavator. Sometimes I’d send them flying; other times, I’d end up on the ground. Back then, I was a fast runner which probably caused more damage than I realised – not just to myself. More than once, the nun, who, much like the Holy Trinity, was the umpire, the coach and my teacher, (we’re talking Catholic school, don’t forget), would savagely blow her whistle and send me off court for rough play.
Those unforgiving surfaces are a thing of the past
These days, kids rarely play on those harsh, unforgiving surfaces. And it’s not often they even play outside. They are indoors in purpose built sporting facilities with nice soft spongy flooring, so they don’t bump or bruise their gentle little bodies. If they do happen to have a fall, or a slip, the adults surrounding them run for their first aid kits and overdo it with the sympathy. With little kids, I’ve heard parents say things like, ‘Oh that nasty ground. Let’s give it a smack.’ No, we can’t have 21st century kids getting cuts, abrasions, or anything of the sort from unforgiving surfaces and playing outdoors.
The ball seemed to get smaller …
For the whole of my school life and beyond, I was led to believe I was bad at sport due to my clumsiness and lack of co-ordination. But in hindsight, after being diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa (RP) decades later, I realised the real reason: I couldn’t see well enough to play mainstream sports. And as I got older, the ball seemed to get smaller, eventually shrinking to the size of a ping pong ball. In reality, I rarely saw it at all, because I was looking through an ever- narrowing tunnel, which, as my ophthalmologist put it, eventually became the size of a pinhole.
Even though I didn’t get that diagnosis until years after I left school, I wasn’t going to let a small problem like that keep me off the basketball court. So, during the last years of high school at that darn Catholic school – under the supervision of those nuns, I refused to let my difficulties with sport defeat me.
I stepped out onto the court, trying to keep up with the blur of bodies rushing past. Holding my hands up and screaming, just like everyone else, I tried to make myself part of the action. ‘Over here, Phil! Dot! Melanie, throw it.’ I called enthusiastically even though no-one called out my name. My hands were poised, ready to catch, but the ball seemed to have its own agenda, whizzing past me every time.
I was always picked last
In my high school experience, basketball was just like any other sport that required teamwork. The teacher chose two of the popular sporty kids to pick teams. Why couldn’t they have picked names out of a hat to make it fair for everyone? I even lucked out in ballroom dancing, which was compulsory in Years 9 and 10. There was an odd number of girls in the class, and no one wanted to be my partner. So, I ended up as the demonstration model, dancing with the dancing teacher while she yelled out instructions.
‘Girls, right foot forward.’
‘Boys, left foot back.’
‘Heads up. Don’t look at your feet’.
Admittedly, I doubt this class was easy for anyone, especially since the girls had to switch back and forth between the boys’ and girls’ parts.
School Certificate Room 25 – 1970 something
As we gear up for our fifty-year school reunion this year, the organising committee dug up a photo of the school yearbook, straight out of the archives. When I read the descriptions of the girls in the photo, it made me smile. There I was in the front row looking vaguely towards the nun with the Box Brownie surrounded by my classmates. On the next page, there is a short sentence about each of us. I was one of the very few listed with “non-sporty” interests, while all the others were noted for being great at softball, athletics, basketball, and the like.
Featured image: thanks to Dreamstime for the free stock photo of ‘vintage basketball’
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